The April 1973, Epic Records label released, Kenny O'Dell written, and Charlie Rich performed song, Behind Closed Doors defined life in Hermitage Hall fairly well when it stated "no one knows what goes on behind closed doors."

Charlie Rich's first Number One Hit spent twenty weeks on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart and garnished the Single of the Year Award, and the Song of the Year Award, from the Country Music Association and the Academy of Country Music.

Additionally, the song reaped Grammy Awards for Best Country Song and Best Country Vocal Performance, Male.


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I NEVER FIT IN ABUNDANTLY WELL AT HERMITAGE HALL. Most of that was by my own design. I skirmished regularly with other boys living there over petty squabbles. If you did not stand up for yourself you became an easy target for bullying, and I never signed on for any of that foolishness.

My rule of thumb became when their opinion differed from mine fisticuffs soon followed. I developed a certain talent for, and grew pretty adept at throwing hands, and feet, and anything else, nailed down or otherwise. My frequent weapons were rocks, and books, and whatever it took to get the message across loud and clear. In a jungle where the strongest survived, those things mattered not to me.

Physically, I was one of the smallest boys at Hermitage Hall. Now, this gentle giant, right, remains vertically challenged at five feet and five inches tall. In today's world one can not say the word "short" without being politically incorrect. Of course, that's never stopped me before in saying just exactly the words on my mind at that moment.

Fighting was strictly against the Hermitage Hall Code of Conduct and the reason for the altercation did not matter one iota. Two posteriors were going to get thoroughly flogged by King Tubbo's flaunted Big Bertha. One of my favorite maneuvers when I fought was to grab two hands full of the hair on top of my opponent's head, and for all I was worth, try to yank it out by the roots. The louder they screamed in agony the harder I pulled. Soon, they saw the light and left me alone, which made me much happier. Truth be told that was all I wanted.

One particular incident that occurred in the cafeteria the day I strolled off the premises, helped end me up in a certain esteemed Wal-Mart parking lot. For whatever reason there may be, this occurrence has stuck with me all these years later. I don't remember what nasty swill of kitchen refuge they prepared for our consumption. Suppose that does not matter now, and doubt if the resident pigs at Hermitage Hall would have wallowed in the slop, even if all they tried to do was spread their scent.

Phillip Gobertson was a loudmouthed muttonhead. He fancied himself an intimidator. No one liked him because of his tormenting anyone he saw as vulnerable. He'd been at Hermitage Hall a transient while. I do not know if the chubby tadpole aged out of the system there or not. For all I know, it is much more probable he wound up serving time in the Big Boys' House. You know, the one with all those steel bars that adorn the joint. Either way, I could care less, but don't.

As soon as Phillip approached me, I sensed a battle brewing. However, I was alerted to whatever he had in mind. For two days he'd tried to engage me in conflict. In front of a captive audience he made his move. That was not a wise decision on his part.

Phillip glared a threat and gaped, "Guess I'm gonna have to punch you now!"

I dropped my fork on my plate, right in the middle of what was supposed to be instant mashed potatoes, or a close proximity thereof. I glowered back at him just as menacingly as he had been and replied, "Guess you're gonna have to try!"

Phillip had thirty pounds of excess blubber on me. Much quicker than my contested dispute, I bolted off my chair and grabbed him around his ample waist. Rapidly, I tackled him to the floor like a middle linebacker brought down a flat-footed fullback. Phillip laid on his back. The poor floor had to support all his weight. I almost felt pity for it.

As a crowd of boys gathered around us whooping, hollering, and encouraging the two banty roosters into combat, I reached up on the refreshment table situated near to where I had been seated. I grabbed the punchbowl and poured its ice cold liquid contents over Phillip's carrot-top. This sent raspberry punch racing down his chest. It pooled on the floor around where he laid shivering in the mess. I left him there in tears, humiliated by what I'd done. I never claimed to fight fair.

The altercation cost me to lose my canteen privileges for a month. So what! I seldom enjoyed any of the treats there. I also had a mandatory consultation with Doctor Angelica Oliverez. She handled all the so-called anger management issues Hermitage Hall felt us boys displayed. Whoop-de-freaking-do!

What ticked me off the most about this incident was later I heard Phillip walked away from the altercation unscathed. He was not disciplined at all for the confrontation he caused. I simply finished the bruhaha. I couldn't concern myself with that matter though. I held larger visions of grandeur that involved five sticky little fingers. You can probably guess without much effort what they were up to.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter 4 I will detail the final straw that caused me to depart Hermitage Hall on the most fateful day of my life.